Unfortunately, he noticed right away.
"You are not wearing your ring."
Christine nearly dropped her spoon in her lap. She turned quickly in her seat and saw Erik, looking at her intently. How long had he been standing there, silently watching her eat her yogurt?
She put the spoon down and clasped her hands together. "Oh," she said. "I guess I forgot to put it back on after I showered."
There was an extremely long pause, and she felt her skin prickling. They had had this exact conversation before, her using the exact same lie as an excuse. She knew what he was waiting for, and even though she didn't want to acquiesce and give him yet another victory, she eventually mumbled an apology and slunk to the bathroom. Just the sight of it, small and cool and insignificant-looking, made her stomach twist. Once, she had been almost happy to wear it. Now, as she forced herself to pick it up and slip it onto her finger, it felt like she was putting on the shackles herself.
Her tears were spent. Only a few slipped down her cheeks last night as she had entered the bedroom. Most of the night had been spent in mute silence, laying in the darkness, staring up into nothing. It was all so bizarre, unreal, that she could barely comprehend what had happened. Eventually, she had managed to doze off, her sleep fitful and restless.
He was still waiting by the table when she came back out, and she quickly and carelessly held her left hand out for him to see the ring.
"You must wear it always," he said, watching her sit back down at the table and resume her breakfast. The food was tasteless in her mouth. "It is a symbol—"
"I'm sorry, okay?" she interrupted tonelessly, not looking at him. "I'm sorry I forgot. I'll wear it. I promise."
He was silent, and she sensed him shifting his weight from one foot to the next. She was exhausted and felt empty inside. All she wanted was to be left alone. Maybe forever, even if that thought terrified her more than anything. She had ruined so many lives. If she was alone, she couldn't do any more damage to anyone else. And she wouldn't have to sit there and endure his endless, persistent, unsettling staring.
"Do you feel well?" he asked after another minute. "You are so quiet."
"I'm fine."
She could tell he struggled with the next sentence he spoke.
"You made me…so very happy yesterday, Christine. You were so beautiful. More beautiful than I had ever imagined."
That was a stretch. She was sure that she had looked insane, her hair wild and her face puffy and red. But she did not care. She didn't want to talk about yesterday; she never wanted to talk about it ever again. She wanted to forget it entirely. If she forgot, then it never happened, and she hadn't been forced to marry the Phantom.
"Perhaps it was not the wedding you had envisioned," he continued. She said nothing in reply, continuing to stare at her half-eaten breakfast. "But so much had to change due to the…extenuating circumstances. And we could not have had a lavish, drawn-out affair due to opening night being so close. It is important that you are well-rested and prepared."
Christine's heart skipped a few beats. While he had told her she would be going above for performances, she hadn't actually allowed herself to believe it after yesterday's events. She swallowed harshly, hoping he wouldn't hear how her breathing had quickened slightly. He was going to let her out. It was going to be over.
"So you must forgive the rather humble ceremony, you see," he said. She wanted to scream at him to be quiet. "If you still want to celebrate in a more traditional way, I would be open to discussing it with you after you are not quite so busy with rehearsals and performing."
When she still didn't answer, he walked around the table, bending over to look closely at her face. She lowered her gaze to the table, not wanting to see him. His mask. His eyes.
"Mute once more, my dear?" he said, his voice suddenly cold. "Then it would be a waste to take you above for rehearsals."
She looked at him instantly. "I'm fine!" she said hastily, her voice cracking. Clearing her throat, she tried again, doing her best to sound calm and neutral, "I'm fine. I'm just…trying to rest my voice."
"Then get ready. You will be late, and if my ingénue is to sing, she might as well do the damn thing well."
Christine scrambled up from the table. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she looked around the bedroom, trying to decide if there was anything she should take up, either as evidence or as a memento, something she wanted to keep. It was mostly clothing and furniture here. She couldn't smuggle the ugly sculpture up, but that didn't seem like very convincing evidence anyway. She looked through the bathroom as well. Nothing incriminating. Nobody would believe she was staying with the Phantom if she showed them her hairbrush and some of the nice soaps he had bought for her.
Her best bet would be to find someone to help corroborate her story. Maybe Mr. Poligny or Mr. Moncharmin would be helpful, as they had been suspicious of her. Or even Mr. Reyer. There had to be people who could help convince someone at the police station to believe her. They could find Raoul and Mr. Khan, and Christine would go far, far away from here.
Erik was waiting for her by the front door, crossing his arms and tapping his long fingers impatiently.
"Sorry," she murmured, standing next to him. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and the ring.
He led her up, the tunnels dark and cold. Hating it, she grasped onto his sleeve. She told herself that this would be the last time; the last time he led her up, the last time she had to touch him, the last time she had to look at him. It almost made her feel bad for him.
Plans swirled around in her mind. She would need to be quick. As soon as he let her out, she would run. The thought of not performing after all of the work she had done made her sick, but the prospect of having to return down here was worse. And there were lives at stake. Lives were more important than any opera. If only she had listened to Mr. Khan or had asked for help earlier, then maybe…
She took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. There was no point in what ifs, even though they were tempting to consider. So much had happened over the past few days; she had to take things one step at a time.
"I will miss you terribly while you are rehearsing today," Erik said suddenly, and his voice in the darkness made her jump a little.
"Oh," she said.
"Yes," he said. "I had hoped to spend more time with you before the opera opens, but there are some things in life we simply can't control. Don't you agree?"
"Mm," she said stupidly.
"For instance, I cannot control how they rehearse you upstairs. I can offer suggestions, but ultimately it isn't my choice." They turned a corner, and Christine could sense that they were getting closer to the door that led out into the back alleyway. Her heart was in her throat. She was so close to freedom.
"As another example, I cannot control how Nadir recovers. I can do my best to tend to him, but if I'm required elsewhere, I won't be able to manage his medical needs."
Christine stopped short. "What do—"
He grabbed her wrist and pulled, and she stumbled forward. "You should not be late," he said curtly. "You don't want the other performers to think you are getting special treatment, do you? Waltzing in whenever you please like that Carlotta Giudicelli. You're so much more talented, of course, but you should still put in your time and show respect to the work."
She tried to pull her wrist out of his grasp, but he ignored her, continuing to lead her onward. "As I was saying before I was interrupted: I try to manage Nadir's needs as best I can, but if there are other requirements of mine, I must see to them. If I were, say, forced to follow you around the Opera House to ensure you did not do something quite stupid, I would have no time at all for poor Nadir."
They had reached the small room with the door. Light was spilling in from the cracks, illuminating him slightly, and he stopped and turned to look at her. She felt small, something easily crushed and defeated, and his words echoed around in her mind.
"Erik—" she said quietly.
"Do you understand?" he said, sounding impatient. "I would hate to have to abandon Nadir today. He is in a very bad way. I want you to be a good, mature girl and rehearse politely before returning home with me. But if you can't manage that—if you feel the need to leave the Opera House for any reason, speak to anyone about anything other than Elektra—then I would have to stay here to ensure that you do not do those things. And poor Nadir would be left all alone. Who knows what would happen to him."
Her mind was spinning, and she felt a bit faint. It was as if her brain refused to process what he was saying, even though she knew exactly what he meant.
He shook her arm a bit, as if trying to wake her up. "I must hear that you understand my dilemma before you leave," he said. "What you do is, unfortunately, not in my control. I simply want to ensure that you understand. And hurry—rehearsals will be starting very soon."
"I…" She tugged on a few curls. "Erik, I…"
His hand suddenly tightened around her wrist, cold and painful. "Don't be stupid," he hissed, and she gasped, feeling as if she had been slapped into consciousness. She had never had any hope of escaping. He would exploit her every weakness. Mr. Khan could not die because of her.
She looked up at him. "You really are going to see Mr. Khan?" she whispered. "You're helping him get better?"
"That is entirely dependent on you, my dear."
She was shivering, though not because of the cold. His hand was still pinching her wrist. The ring on her left hand felt heavy and constrictive against her clammy, swollen fingers.
"I understand," she said, her voice tight. "I'll…I'll go rehearse and that's it. I promise."
"You will be a good girl for your Erik?"
The entire phrase was nauseating. "Yes."
He released her wrist and walked over to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open. Brilliant, bright summer sunshine flooded the small room, and she blinked harshly against it. Warm air rushed in. She had never smelled anything so sweet.
"I will collect you here after rehearsals," he said. "Work hard today. I won't have you humiliating me on opening night."
His cruel words echoed in her mind as she made her way to the performer's entrance of the Opera House. There were other people around her as she walked; real, living people who could help her. But she did not speak to them, did not look at them. In a haze, her body took her to the entrance, back into the Opera House, through the winding hallways, and into the dressing room. Everyone else was already there, chatting and pulling on costumes. A few girls waved at her. She stared back.
Nobody knew. Nobody knew what had happened to her over the past few days. Nobody understood that Mr. Khan had been shot, that Erik had dragged her underneath this very building, had forced her to marry him, had threatened her. She scanned the faces of the other women, all of them happily chatting as they touched up their makeup, slipped on shoes, placed a few extra pins in their hair.
"You're going to be late, Christine!" one of them called to her. "You're in the opening scene!"
"Like it'll be any different if she isn't there," another voice came coolly. "Don't you have some super secret special rehearsals to go to instead?"
"Hey!" the first voice replied sharply. "Don't be rude. It's not our business. She's here now. Leave her alone."
And Christine was left alone. She went to the rack that held the costumes and pulled hers out, slipping it on mechanically. Mr. Khan's pained, ashen face swam in her mind, blood leaking from between his fingers. She felt nauseous again, and she leaned her forehead against the nearby wall, taking a few deep breaths. A girl sitting on the bench next to her looked at her in concern.
"Are you okay?" the girl asked. "You're really pale."
"Just nervous," Christine mumbled.
"Don't be, you're amazing! You'll do great."
There was a sudden bell, signaling the performers to take their places for the opening scene. Christine hurriedly pulled her shoes on, tied her curls up as best she could, and followed the other women who opened the opera with her as the five servants.
She felt like some kind of automaton; a robot that performed when needed and remained motionless, silent, when not required to speak. Far in the back of the audience, near the doors that lead out into the lobby, she could see a group of people gathered, watching the rehearsals, and she could faintly make out the wide outline of Mr. Poligny. The others were unfamiliar. Further administration and creative directors, no doubt. All watching her wooden performance.
Mr. Reyer approached her while some lighting angles were being adjusted. "Miss Daae," he said, quietly enough that the others around could not hear. "I'm glad you're back rehearsing with us after your break. But…I was under the impression that you were receiving more—er—extensive training during your absence. You seem to be struggling a bit today. Is everything all right?"
This was her opening to tell him. In less than thirty seconds, she could have him calling the police. She could be escorted out of the Opera House surrounded by guards, driven to a secure location, and never see Erik again. But instead, she nodded her head and shrugged.
"I'm fine," she said. "Sorry, just nervous to be back with the company today. I promise I'll be ready for opening night."
He raised an eyebrow and looked at her skeptically. It appeared as if he wanted to continue pressing her, but by that point, the lighting situation had been resolved, and he was required to leave the stage as the rehearsals continued.
There was no ballet or dance number in Elektra, which meant that Christine was unable to find or speak with her friend Meg. This, however, was probably for the best, she thought to herself sadly. The fewer people who were closer to her, the better. It was safer for them.
Backstage, Christine looked up and examined the flies, ropes, drop cloths, pulleys, and various ladders and catwalks that crisscrossed above her head. Was Erik skulking up there, watching her? Was he using Reyer as his spy to make sure she didn't speak with anyone else? Or maybe he was in the very walls. She remembered how he had made a door open out of seemingly nowhere the night of the fire. Following her around to make sure that she stayed obedient was probably child's play to him.
A frown pulled at her lips, however, at the thought of him sneaking around. He was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be taking care of Mr. Khan. He had said he needed to be with Mr. Khan to help him recover. But…how was she supposed to know if he was keeping his promises? He had lied about so much before this. What if he had just said that to keep her quiet and was actually still watching her? Or… What if Mr. Khan was actually already…?
She couldn't finish the thought, and her throat clogged up. Gunshot wounds weren't something to take lightly, especially not from what she had seen that night as Mr. Khan had been bleeding on the floor. She was sure he required intense treatment and care. And if Mr. Khan was not at a hospital, how could Erik have the knowledge and resources necessary to help him recover?
She felt like an idiot. The only reason she was going along with any of Erik's demands at this point was to keep Mr. Khan alive. But if he was already…gone, then why play along?
By the time she returned to the alleyway and let herself in the small room that led to the tunnels, she had an idea formulated. However, it was risky. Very risky. She was not sure if she could pull it off.
He was waiting for her, and she reluctantly closed the door behind her, shutting out the warm early evening summer glow.
"Welcome home, my dear," he said, his voice beautiful. The phrase made her sick. "I trust rehearsals went well today?"
The question made it sound like he had not been there to observe her poor performance. But he could also be tricking her, walking her into a trap to berate her about how badly she had done. Nervously, she nodded.
"Fine," she whispered.
"'Fine,'" he repeated. "How fascinating. Perhaps you can enlighten me once we are at the house? Much more pleasant for a conversation than this dark, ugly room."
"Yeah," she said softly. "Uh, sure. Okay."
"For god's sake," he said, suddenly sounding impatient. "You don't need to constantly whisper around me. Your voice can handle the strain of normal speech, you know. It isn't as if you're singing the whole damn opera by yourself."
"Sorry," she squeaked immediately. She cleared her throat and then tried again, this time her voice unnaturally-loud: "Sorry. Uh." She lowered her voice again. "Sorry."
He sighed, sounding annoyed. "It is nothing. You are no doubt tired from rehearsals. And I have missed you." She felt him touch her left arm, and she jumped a bit in surprise. His hand ran down her forearm and brushed over her fingers, where she knew he was deliberately feeling for her ring. Then he wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her to the tunnels.
She felt herself growing more and more nervous as they got closer to the house, trying to decide when it would be best to speak with him. No matter where or when she told him, it would be bad. He would become irate. But she had to. It was the only thing she could think of to do, the only weapon she had against him.
They at last reached the house underneath the Opera House, and she blinked a bit at the light, watching as Erik made a show of turning on a few lights in the kitchen and bedroom, so it would not seem so dark and cold to her. He then returned and gestured for her to sit on the sofa, taking a spot in his usual chair.
"So," he said, looking at her intently. "Rehearsals. We have only one more chance to perfect you, and then you will be debuting your gift to the world. What feedback did Reyer give? I wonder if he's noticed your problems with your breath work on the third phrase…"
She took a silent breath and then said, as if suddenly possessed by someone much different and much more confident, "Erik, did you really go see Mr. Khan today?"
His eyes narrowed immediately as he looked at her. "Of course," he said coolly after a moment of silence. "I told you that he requires a great deal of care."
"Where is he?" she asked.
"That is not your concern," he said. "Your concern is your final rehearsal. I'd like you to read some German text aloud for me tonight, and—"
"I want to see him," she said.
He paused, obviously irritated at her interruption, and she braced herself for the explosion. Instead, he gave a very small, very forced smile.
"This is not possible, I am afraid," he said. "I understand you might…care for the old man. But he is in no state for visitors, and you need—"
"I want to see him," she repeated. "I need to see him."
"Perhaps if you let me finish my thoughts," he said through gritted teeth. "You need to focus on opening night. I can't have you upset just before your debut."
"I want to see him tomorrow," she said, trying to ignore the way his shoulders rose up slightly, tensing. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, but she had to continue. "After rehearsals. Please take me to him."
"As I said," he hissed, "this is out of the question. I can pass along a lovely message of well-wishes from you. I'm sure you would like to—"
"I want to see him tomorrow, or else—"
"STOP!" He leapt from his chair, his eyes flashing, his mouth twisted into a snarl. "Stop interrupting me. You will stop pestering me. You will listen to me. I will not take you to Nadir. That is impossible. I have told you this. Do not bother me about this anymore."
She waited a few moments to make sure he was finished speaking, and then she took a deep breath, her heart pounding her throat, her face burning, and blurted out quickly, "If you don't take me to see Mr. Khan, I'm not going to sing."
He took a step closer, his eyes flashing, and she cowered back, throwing her hands up in front of her as if to protect herself from a physical attack. The sight must have triggered something in him, as he quickly stepped away and instead gripped the back of his chair, the leather squeaking underneath his bony grip.
"That is a very silly thing to say," he said coldly. "And I'm afraid I don't believe you."
"I won't," she repeated, trying to sound firm and resolute. This part was the most crucial. He had to believe her.
He laughed then, though it was humorless and unpleasant. "Empty threats, my dear. An empty threat. You want to sing just as much as I want you to—possibly more. Throwing it all away on some old, doddering man? No, I don't think so."
That was true; she did want it more than anything else. She wanted with all her heart to be on the stage on opening night, feeling the spotlight on her, listening to the orchestra play her opening notes. But Mr. Khan's life was more important than any performance. She could not be selfish, not when Mr. Khan had gone to such great lengths to try to save her.
"I swear I won't," she said. "And you can't stop me once I'm up there alone. I won't sing. I'll talk to anyone I can, I'll tell them everything, I'll ruin any chance I had of performing. I'll embarrass myself, embarrass you. I'll—"
"No," he said, holding up a hand to silence her. "No. No. What the hell is this? You would not dare do that to me. You are to obey me, you are now my w—" He cut himself off very quickly, as if unable to finish that thought himself. Christine could feel the unspoken word hang in the air. Wife. Wife. Wife. The ring was heavy on her finger. She took a deep breath, trying not to dissolve into panic at that reality. She needed to focus on this task right now. The other problems would be dealt with, but at a later time.
He examined her, his eyes still narrowed dangerously. "You are upset, you are tired. Much has happened over the past few days. You should retire. It's important that you are well-rested for your debut."
She wanted so badly to take the out he was offering her, to simply concede and admit that he was right and forget this confrontation ever happened. But she had to know that Mr. Khan was still alive. And this was the only way he would listen to her, the only thing she could use to her advantage.
"I want to sing," she said, trying to reassure him. "But…I have to see Mr. Khan first. To see that he's alive. Please."
"Are you deaf?" he hissed. "Why do you keep insisting when I've already given you my answer? I will tell him you wish him well, and that will be it."
How could she make him realize she was serious? He couldn't physically force her to sing. But he could trap her here, make her life hell. He had done so before.
But…did that even matter anymore? Her life was already a special kind of hell.
She did not speak much the rest of the evening, ignoring his attempts at conversation. After a while, he grew angry enough that he skulked off to the hidden room by the piano and slammed the door shut, which she took as permission to retreat to the bedroom for the night. She did not sleep well again, anxiously tossing and turning, wondering if she was making a mistake. But she had to do this. If Mr. Khan was alive, she would do what she had to in order to help him. If he was…gone, then there was no point in playing along to whatever sick game Erik was making up for them.
If he was gone, then she would be really and truly alone.